Turning 2 not so terrible for tyke’s granddad

It’s been a whole year since the last column, the one marking your birthday, the one where you turned the Big 1.

This time last year, as you’ll never recall except possibly under hypnosis, you had learned to crawl around your Playa del Rey townhouse, but walking was a step too far.

I remember lugging you around the Venice boardwalk in a BabyBjorn, a tummy-hugging Swedish contraption so complicated it made buckling into a parachute seem as simple as slipping into a black T-shirt.

That summer evening a year ago, Harley-Davidsons were roaring, the crowd was milling on the world-famous boardwalk, and you were drinking in the raucous human comedy through round eyes the size of dimes.

On the recent Memorial Day weekend, when you were visiting Bird Rock, you and I stole a trip to Calumet Park, overlooking the ocean.

In my child-rearing book, which I confess bears more resemblance to Dr. Hunter S. Thompson’s than Dr. Spock’s, you’re a gifted prodigy, a Mozart of mental and physical development.

During our very first outing in Venice, just two weeks after you were born, your grandmother, a yoga instructor, marveled at how naturally you assumed the baddha konasana position in your stroller, knees spread wide, the soles of your feet caressing each other. To me, you looked like a miniature Winston Churchill.

Your mommy says you have been reading “Babar’s Yoga for Elephants,” stretching your body like a soft boardwalk pretzel.

As we search for airplanes in the air, birds on the wing, buses in the street and countless other wonders of the world, you are like a magic lens that turns dusk into morning.

If not for you, we would never have seen the brilliant “Yo Gabba Gabba!,” your favorite (and, so far, only) TV show.

If not for you, we would never have met DJ Lance Rock, Toodee, Foofa, Plex and Muno, fantasy characters singing and dancing in a landscape colored in hallucinogenic shades of sherbet.

If not for you, we wouldn’t have bought annual (and so incredibly cheap) passes to the San Diego Zoo where we can take you for a visit to the flamingos and monkeys on a whim.

If not for you, Ne-Ne would never have taken the Balboa Park kiddie train, your first experience on the rails.

“This is the best time you’ll ever have,” a gentleman said to your grandmother before you two found your seats.

He was talking about the five-minute park ride, a locomotive rite of passage for all San Diego children.

Thanks to you, he could have been talking about the past two years.

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When asked how old you’ll be (and now are), you lift both fists, as if playing peekaboo, and raise each index finger. Two!

Many years ago, when I was a young father of a baby and stunned by the enormity of parenthood, I was often warned of the impending “Terrible Twos.”

I awaited the inevitable demonization with dread. No matter what we did, satanic possession was in store. Our baby boy would be stolen and replaced by a teething monster talking nonstop in tongues and electrocuting himself in some terrible self-inflicted accident.

As it turned out, 2 was the open door to the time of my life. That was when your dad and I started going to the zoo and watching Little League at Morley Field after I knocked off work.

Now that you are 2 and living in Westwood, you and your dad watch Little League games at the field where they filmed “The Bad News Bears.” You go to Jackie Robinson Stadium and cheer for the Bruins baseball team.

Like a natural, you are hitting line drives off a tee with a fat plastic bat. Though a righty thrower, you swing left-handed, the way your dad did.

In Ne-Ne’s studio/playroom, when you get good plastic on the ball, you round the yoga block bases and run home.

In a state of wonderment, your grandparents jump and cheer like crazy.